


Rewriting History

by china_shop



Series: Waltzverse [11]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/M, Identity Issues, M/M, Multi, Roleplay, intimacy is hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-05-05
Packaged: 2018-03-29 02:58:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3879589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You remember Disneyland at the Ganzebord? I want to try out a different theme park." He lifted Peter's wallet—purely for something to do with his hands, but it was apt enough. "June's. When I was wearing the anklet."</p><p>(A sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/3753274">Shooting Stars of Yesteryear</a>.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. April 2015

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to mergatrude for first-reading and beta, and Sherylyn for beta and Ameri-picking. <3

"What do you mean, you've gone straight?" exclaimed Mozzie. "Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?"

"Would you keep your voice down? They know me here." They were dining at La Palette, a bistro on La Rue de Seine near the auction house. Thankfully, the regular wait staff, Cherie and Marcello, were busy with other customers.

Moz toned down his tone, but the deluge of dismay was just beginning. "I'm telling you, I ran a statistical analysis before your farce of a commutation hearing a couple of years back, and seventy-one percent of guys who retire from crime wind up dead within five years. It's not just old scores or run-ins with trigger-happy law enforcement, either. Nearly half of them died in accidents, probably caused by inattention due to dulling of the critical faculties and outright boredom. You can't go straight, Neal. It's a recipe for death!"

"It's Victor now, Victor Moreau. And I'm already dead. Pretty sure I'm immune to further fatalities." He had no intention of succumbing to a mundane accident, and retribution—from either side of the law—was one of the reasons he'd put Neal Caffrey behind him. But there'd been other motives for his leaving too, and now he could never go back. He wanted desperately to ask after Peter and Elizabeth, but that would only earn him another reproachful glare, and glad as he was to see Moz after so many months, he could do without any more recriminations. He forced a cheerful grin.

"Well, what are you going to do for funds?" asked Mozzie, as if playing a trump card. 

"What most people do. I have a job." The details could wait until they were in private. "So, how's New York these days?"

"The same," said Mozzie. "Right now I'm more interested in Paris and her alluring array of museums and private collections. Have you at least cased the Musée d'Orsay?"


	2. June 2015

He made the announcement while El was feeding Mikey his dinner and Peter was making a salad. "By the way, I sold the Prius."

"Your car? You only bought it a month ago." El looked around, the curves of her ear, chin and neck forming a minor miracle that he wanted to trace with his finger.

"No, no, no, no," said Mikey, grabbing at the spoon she was holding. "Mamma!" 

"Six weeks ago." He'd bought the car shortly after he moved in, because one car for three adults on three different schedules was a logistical puzzle to rival international money-laundering. And because he wanted to be a help, not a hindrance to their lives, and owning a car was what normal people did. But he'd been late for a meeting that morning after it took him forty minutes to get across the bridge and another half hour to park, and that had been the last straw. That and the near-misses with the cab and the glazier's van that he was keeping off the record. He shrugged and stole a piece of cucumber from Peter's chopping board. "Gas, insurance and parking fines were adding up to more than I used to spend on cab fare. I called it."

"Welcome to New York, greatest city in the world," said Peter. "You okay?"

"I feel like my dog just died. You should comfort me."

Peter's gaze turned hot. "Later," he said, but he pulled Victor close and kissed him anyway, slow and full of promise, knocking half the salad ingredients onto the floor to Satchmo's delight, and Victor leaned into him and didn't give a crap about the car.


	3. September 2016

He sat in the armchair in Mikey's room, watching his son fall asleep. Mikey was two years old, a loud, sunny-faced rampaging monster, exhausting all three of his parents on a daily basis, but he looked so peaceful and vulnerable, sprawled out in his crib with old Tootie the lion clutched to his side, that Victor's throat ached.

He'd wanted a family. He'd survived prison by promising himself that when he got out, he and Kate would be together, and they could have it all. But with everything that happened after, and with Mozzie's perennial dire warnings, he'd stopped dreaming it would ever happen. And now he had a perfect, unexpected son made from the other two people he loved most. A son whose affection and chatter and sheer existence brought greater significance to _everything_. Who was curious and funny and impatient and utterly defenseless. 

Victor had almost no memories of being that young, but he knew that back then his own family had been whole. His mom had been happy.

Mikey mumbled something into his fist, and Victor leaned forward and smoothed his hair back from his forehead with a whisper-soft fingertip, and murmured, "I promise I will never, ever leave."

 

*

 

"You ever miss the life?" asked Mozzie out of the blue, over lunch the next week. They were in Cobble Hill Park, watching Mikey ride his yellow and blue plastic tricycle around and around in circles, pretending to be a bulldozer. Mozzie had just returned from a weekend in Amsterdam and seemed particularly mellow.

"I don't have time to miss anything." Victor meant it honestly, but as the words came out, they sounded like evasion. He reconsidered. "Sometimes I miss working with Peter, working with you. Beating impossible odds. But the price was too high."

"I think we've both done all right." Mozzie sipped his soy cappuccino and smiled.

Victor raised his own cup in a toast. "To retirement."

 

*

 

He was happy. He never doubted he was happy. He just wasn't sleeping well. At first he put it down to the disruptions of parenthood, but then he woke from a restless dream about prison—not the frustration, or the heartbreak after Kate left; just tedium, endless days of waiting. _This is what you were waiting for,_ he told himself, listening to the deep, overlapping tides of Peter and Elizabeth's breathing, but the sense of loss lingered.

"Everything okay, babe?" asked El, between meetings at work. Her eyebrows were drawn together, her gaze searching. She touched his arm, and he wanted to get his hands on her, to kiss her and more, but Yvonne was on the other side of the room, on a phone call, and they were too busy to duck discreetly into the store room.

"Couldn't be better," he said, fervently, trying to express how content he was without going overboard.

The touch on his arm became a squeeze. "Okay. I love you."

He dreamed he was wearing the anklet.

 

*

 

"You remember Disneyland at the Ganzebord?" he said, the next night after Mikey was in bed. 

"I do. I remember it vividly." Peter turned off the TV and gave Victor his full attention, making his skin prickle. 

"Easy, tiger. I want to try out a different theme park." He lifted Peter's wallet—purely for something to do with his hands, but it was apt enough. "June's. When I was wearing the anklet."

Peter stilled. His gaze grew even more laser-like. "You sure about that?"

Victor bit his lip, nodded. They'd spent over a year avoiding the subject of his work release, pretending it had happened to someone else. That they'd always been equals. But he didn't know how else to get what he needed. He put his arm around El's shoulders. "You're invited too, Goldilocks."

"Oh good." El grinned at the nickname, kissed his cheek through his beard, then his mouth. Her lips were sweet and wicked, her curves lush under his hands.

"We'll need a sitter." Peter pushed Victor's leg aside so he could retrieve his wallet from the floor where it had fallen. Then he moved up behind him and kissed his ear, his fingers overlapping with Victor's on El's breast.

"Name a date, and I'll ask Moz," she said, breathlessly. She began unbuttoning Victor's shirt, paused, changed tack. Stood up, and pulled him and Peter with her. "Come on, my bears. Bedtime."

 

*

 

Later that night, while El was brushing her teeth, Peter said, "We can do June's place, but it's your fantasy, all right? If you need to tap out anytime—"

"I won't. I'm fine." Victor found Peter's hand, brought it to his chest.

"If you do," said Peter, overriding him, "you just say the word."

"I know, I know." Victor kissed him sleepily. "Back-up's only ten seconds away."


	4. October 2016

June gave her blessing to the use of the penthouse, and Moz added his own mock-grudging permission. The day arrived.

Victor let himself into the apartment, dumped his groceries on the kitchen counter and put the milk away. His carefully maintained boundaries began to fray around the edges; even after all this time, being Neal Caffrey was only a dozen heartbeats away. 

The apartment had changed in its details; Moz lived here now, his presence reflected in the almond milk in the fridge, the colorful array of shirts hanging behind the open closet door, the photo of Sara on the bookcase. But enough was the same, and it wasn't like he could hold off any longer. 

Reluctantly, he let himself slip back in time. Sink into the old awareness of being trapped and isolated. Out of step with both sides of the law. Dependent. He dug into his messenger bag for the replica tracker he'd made, complete with unblinking green light. Propped his foot on a dining chair and pulled up his pants cuff. The anklet snapped into place, and the ridge of plastic against his skin made his pulse kick up in an instinctive flight response, but he forced himself to stay calm. Tonight Neal Caffrey would seduce Peter and Elizabeth. He'd cook them a dazzling meal and tell them he loved them, and when they said yes and came to his bed, he'd know that the wait had been worth it. The ghost of his former life would be appeased.

He shook himself out of his torpor—this was supposed to be fun—and threw together a marinade for the chicken breasts. Left them soaking in the fridge and decided to pay a visit to his old gym. Take a swim, for the authentic anklet-era Caffrey experience.

He used to go there all the time—late at night, early mornings, burning off his restless energy swimming endless laps of the pool—but it had been a couple of years now. He didn't know any of the staff at the front desk, and walking into the changing rooms, he was hit by a wave of anxiety. The tracker wasn't particularly noticeable under his clothes, but he was about to make it obvious, and if someone called the cops—if something happened—how would he explain it was a fake? He'd have to involve Peter.

This was wrong. This whole thing was wrong. Who got _nostalgic_ about being on parole?

But he put a cheerful, confident face on it and kept going, and of the half-dozen guys in various states of undress, none said a word or made eye contact. By the time he was diving into the pool, he was Neal. Neal Caffrey, the con artist. A man who could talk his way out of anything, if he had to.

Water tugged at the anklet like it used to, and the tile at the bottom of the pool had the same old cracks and discoloration, but the movements and breathing were the same too, and they soothed him. And he still had his beard, a talisman against any permanent transformation.

 

*

 

Peter and Elizabeth arrived on the dot. They knocked rather than barging in, which Neal attributed to Elizabeth's presence. He placed the flower vase he was holding in the middle of the dining table, took a deep breath and went to let them in. It made no sense to be nervous, but he was.

"Hey," he said, opening the door and pasting on a smile.

"Hello, Neal." Elizabeth smiled back at him, friendly but distant. She was wearing a red dress he remembered from two or three years ago and her gold earrings, and she looked gorgeous, slightly flushed with excitement or just from the stairs. She didn't move to hug or kiss him hello. 

Peter, still in his work clothes, was equally restrained. He handed over a bottle of wine, searching Neal's expression through narrowed eyes as he did, and it was impossible to tell how much the scrutiny was his handler persona and how much it was present-day Peter, especially when the first thing he said was, "You didn't shave."

"You'll have to use your imagination," said Neal. "Come in."

Elizabeth stepped across the threshold and dropped her coat over the back of the couch. "Wow, something smells amazing. I didn't know you could cook."

"Not all of his talents are criminal," said Peter, and then clapped him warmly on the arm, as if in apology. "Thanks for having us over."

El's eyes danced. "Are we celebrating something?"

"I hope so," said Neal, and she winked and turned away to examine the painting on the easel by the window. It was a Rubens he'd dug out of the back of Byron's suit closet.

Meanwhile, Peter was investigating the stovetop, lifting lids and sniffing ingredients. Neal gave him a beer and a glass of wine for Elizabeth and shooed him away so he could finish cooking. Peter and Elizabeth took the opportunity to go outside and admire the view. 

Ten minutes later, they were still out there. Neal went to the French doors to call them in and paused, struck by how complete they looked together. Peter was smiling down at Elizabeth with all his warmth, sharing a private joke, and it put an old familiar ache under Neal's ribs, like a bruise. Putting himself on the outside again, making them all pretend they weren't a family—why had this seemed like a good idea? What if the wind changed, and they stuck this way?

He nearly tapped out then, but having come this far, he was determined to see it through. To lay his ghosts to rest for once and for all. He poured himself a glass of wine and went outside. "Dinner's nearly ready. A couple more minutes."

"Oh good, I'm starved." Elizabeth had her hand tucked into Peter's elbow. "So, what case are you guys working on?"

"Oh, you don't want to know," said Peter. "I'm torturing Neal with the Mortenson real estate fraud again."

Neal smirked, despite his unease. The Mortenson case had dragged on for years through wiretaps and audits, an ongoing thorn in both of their sides. One of the many things he didn't miss about working for the Feds. "Paperwork is hell."

"Mortenson again? Why's it taking so long?" El looked from Neal to Peter.

"Please, don't get him started," begged Neal.

"It's boring," agreed Peter, sounding distracted. "Boring." He was staring at Neal's leg, and Neal realized he'd only just noticed the tracker. 

An electric shiver ran up his spine, and he shepherded them inside before Peter could raise the subject. "More wine? Elizabeth, Peter tells me you tutored around Europe one summer. I'd love to hear all about it."

He served the meal and drew Elizabeth out on her travels, and then Peter on his backpacking days, deliberately reminding them of their taste for adventure. Hoping to weight matters in his favor. 

Their stories were entertaining, and Neal threw in some choice anecdotes of his own. They soon fell into a rhythm, talking and laughing, and dinner went off without a hitch. Then Neal made coffee and they retired to the living area, Peter and El on the couch, Neal across from them in the armchair.

"We should play a game," said Elizabeth, into a conversational lull.

Peter's eyebrows twitched. "What kind of game?"

"Truth or dare," said Neal, making El grin, mischief in her eyes. She'd been touching Peter on the arm all evening, once on the cheek. He wasn't sure if it was a deliberate tease, but it was having that effect anyway, heightening his need to get close to them—to be the one touching or being touched. His skin felt empty without her hands on it, his shoulders too light without the weight of Peter's strong grip.

"I'll ask first," said Peter, eyeing Neal. "Truth or dare?"

"Honesty is a more challenging game."

Peter's lips curled, pleased. "Did you ask us here this evening so your little friend could break into our house and sift through my files?"

Neal's brain stuttered. He knew Peter was joking, but the question veered uncomfortably close to betrayals from the past that Neal had deliberately put behind him along with his name: breaking into their house and searching their belongings for the art manifest. Peter still didn't know about that; he couldn't ever know. Neal covered quickly, "Purely for the pleasure of your company." He held Peter's gaze for a minute to assuage any suspicion, then turned to El. "Your turn."

"Dare." Her eyes were bright, her dark hair curling down her neck. She looked lovelier than he'd ever seen her, and utterly out of reach.

"Kiss Peter," he said.

"That's not much of a dare," scoffed Peter, but he was blushing.

Elizabeth stood up and pulled Peter to his feet. She put her hand on his cheek and urged him down, kissed him slowly, luxuriously, pressing her body against his. Neal couldn't breathe.

Peter raised his head first, looked across, and Neal's longing must have shown, because Peter said in his soft gravelly voice, "Hey, Sundance. Dare me."

"Yes," said Elizabeth. "Dare him." She still had her hand on Peter's chest; they were still half-embracing.

Neal stood up and went over to them, but there were too many secrets, too much risk. His anklet, too tight. He wanted desperately to flirt, charm and seduce them, but it would be a lie. "I've done things. Things you don't know, things you wouldn't—" Collaborating with Hagen, violating their home. This wasn't a game anymore. He swallowed. "I can't."

Peter took him by the shoulders, his gaze clear. "I don't care what you've done."

And Neal kissed him fiercely, seeking absolution, stupidly relieved when Peter wrapped his arms around him and kissed him back. "I'm in love with you," said Neal, dizzy with it. "Both of you."

"We know," said Elizabeth. She was there at their side. "We love you too, Neal. We do."

Her conviction steadied him, and he breathed again. It was okay, he'd be all right. Bullet dodged. This could still be the same kind of fun sexy roleplay as at the Ganzebord. 

Peter released him, turned him toward Elizabeth, and he gathered her close, ran his hands down her back, skimming the soft wool of her dress, letting the role of Neal Caffrey, con artist/parolee, take over. He'd made his move, and they'd accepted: Peter, with his electric attention and that diamond core of integrity, and Elizabeth, all sweetness and steel. Together they were everything he needed, far exceeding the riches he'd stolen and forged. He bent and took El's mouth, turned on as much by Peter's gaze as by her eager response. 

Her hand slipped under his shirt, up over his ribs, making him hot with desire; her hair was like silk through his fingers. He could barely feel the anklet at all. 

"Take us to bed," she said.

Peter's hand landed on Neal's shoulder like an anchor, and Neal reached for him too, greedy to have them both close. 

"Truth or dare?" said Peter, low in his ear. 

The prospect of further revelations, the risk of resonance, was a looming storm cloud; Neal shied away. "Dare," he said, turning his head without letting go of Elizabeth. "Dare me."

Peter pressed a dark kiss to Neal's mouth. "I dare you to fuck me."

Neal's pulse leaped; his cock hardened. Old fantasies and old selves were colliding, merging. El murmured approval, and they all moved to the bed, undressed each other by inches. Uncovered, the creamy curve of El's waist, the plane of Peter's shoulder blade threw him off-course, and he had to raise the armor he'd worn his whole life: the confident smile and charm like a second skin. But then his pants caught on the anklet—he'd lost the knack of navigating it—and darkness rose up. For a split second, Neal mistook it for desire and welcomed it, but it kept rising, crushing him—darkness followed by ice. Elizabeth and Peter were touching him, stroking and fondling, expecting things of him, and he was cold with shame and regret.

"Hey, are you okay?" asked Peter, frowning, and Neal wanted more than anything to lie. To fake it.

But this was Peter. This was Elizabeth. Neal took a shallow breath, then another. "Not really."

El cupped his cheek, and there was so much love and concern in her gaze, it nearly killed him. "We don't have to do anything," she said. "Whatever you need."

He sat down and closed his eyes, unable to speak. Appalled by his own weakness, by the magnitude of feelings he couldn't control. He'd lain here after Kate died, and for years when he'd been sure Peter and El would never want him. He'd spent long nights here, wondering if he'd ever have anyone. Rebecca had played him here, and Sara had said goodbye. And he'd always been able to put up a front, to have a good time, to get through it. Even after Ellen—

He choked on nothing and covered his face instinctively, terrified he was going to lose it for real. Terrified Peter and El would misinterpret or decide he was too messed up. He should excuse himself—go to the bathroom or out onto the patio. Stare at the cityscape until his life was properly in perspective. He'd put all this behind him. Why now? And why in front of the people he loved most?

He could still save this. He could still—

Arms came around him. Strong arms. Peter. Pulling him close, pressing his face to Peter's broad shoulder, giving him somewhere to hide. And El was rubbing his back, soothing. And despite himself, despite everything he had now, Neal cried.

At first it was for Ellen, for the enormity of losing the one person who had made his childhood okay and the nagging fear that he'd been the one to blow her cover when he went to Roosevelt Island to get the Raphael. But then a whole parade of ghosts and regrets followed. People he'd failed: Kate and Siegel, even Rebecca and Keller and Adler, who'd each cared about him in their own twisted way, and each tried to end him. James' lies and mind-games and final betrayal. Neal's mother, left behind on her own.

"I'm sorry," he tried to say, but El shushed him and leaned against his back so he was surrounded and safe.

"It's okay, baby," she said. "We've got you."

Peter kissed the top of Neal's head and muttered, "I knew we were opening a can of worms with this anklet thing."

"Well, better to open it and let them out than carry them around inside forever," said El, practical and infinitely patient.

"I'm fine," managed Neal. He grabbed a tissue and blew his nose, struggling against a new wave of sadness. "I'm happy."

Peter rubbed his back. "Evidently."

"Hon," said El.

"Look, we get it," Peter told Neal. "You can't put off dealing with stuff forever. Sooner or later the chickens come home to roost."

"And with all you've been through, we may need to build a bigger henhouse," added El, hugging him from behind.

"It's not—" Neal sat up, alarmed, and blew his nose again. "I'll deal with it." Make it go away. Sleight of hand was Neal Caffrey's specialty, after all. And though it would be madness to complain they were taking his meltdown too matter-of-factly, their soothing voices reminded him uncomfortably of how they settled Mikey when he was upset. 

El butted his shoulder. "Pfft, we're a family. We're here for you. And I know this is hard for you to believe, but you don't actually have to be perfect."

Neal summoned a modicum of composure and widened his eyes at her. "You're saying I'm not perfect?"

She grinned softly. "You don't have to be convenient or easy, then. I'd still marry you tomorrow if Peter would give me a divorce."

"Sorry," said Peter. "First come, first served." He slid his fingers into Neal's hair and pulled him back into his arms. "So what do you want to do now?"

They were still sitting on the edge of the bed, mostly undressed. Neal relaxed against him. Maybe it was okay to let them take care of him, just for one night. "I must look like hell."

"Yeah, that's our main concern right now," said Peter, fondly exasperated. 

El leaned against them both. "Truth: what do you need?"

"I don't know, I kind of ruined the mood." He reached for another tissue. The soggy, used ones were piling up on the nightstand. "I want Peter to take off my anklet."

They'd never done that properly, for the last time. And this wasn't the real anklet, and the circumstances weren't exactly how Neal had envisaged it happening—usually they'd been fully clothed and there'd been more ceremony, even cake—but it was something. 

Peter gave him a brief kiss on the lips and knelt down to undo the clasp. Neal had made it with a catch, not a lock; it only took a second. Peter stood up, holding it, leaving Neal completely naked. "What?" said Neal.

"You know it was never about the anklet," said Peter. 

And that wasn't entirely true. There'd been times when everything had been about the anklet, for both of them. But it was true now, and that was what mattered. Neal took it from him, turned off the little green light and threw it across the room to land on the couch. "I love you," he said. "But I think I just want to lie here with you guys and talk. And fair warning, there might be more tears."

"We can handle it." Peter's smile was so loving, Neal started to well up again. This time, he didn't fight it.

"You going to give me full immunity?" He forced a teasing eyebrow, reminding Peter of that night long ago when they'd talked about Adler and Kate over beer and bad wine.

Peter pulled back the covers and got in. "You already have it."

"Spousal immunity," said El. She waited while Neal lay down next to Peter, and followed. "It'll keep you out of jail, but it won't always save you from the glare of doom. In my experience." She reached across and patted Peter's arm. "I know, I deserved it, you're just trying to keep everyone safe."

"We keep each other safe," said Peter, putting his arm around Neal. "All of us."

 

*

 

The next morning was sunny but cold. They bundled up in Byron's old sweaters and sat on the patio, eating the generous breakfast that June had sent up.

"How're you doing, babe?" asked El, rubbing his arm.

"Exhausted." They'd only had a few hours' sleep, and his head was still aching slightly from all the crying, but the coffee was helping on both counts. He scratched at his beard. "Embarrassed. I've never lost it like that before. But I'm fine now. I'm good."

"With everything you've been through, you can't expect to deal with it all in one night. It's going to take some time," said Peter.

El nodded. "We're with you, as long as it takes."

"Even if there's more crying?" Neal sent Peter a rueful grin.

He smiled back and took a slice of toast from the toast rack. "Even then."

"You know, fatherhood has changed you," Neal told him, earning himself a gentle swat. He laughed, then sighed. "I really thought I could leave Neal Caffrey behind like it was just another alias. Moz ran the numbers once: he said guys who go straight have a five in seven chance of dying in the first five years. I guess I thought if I could exorcise that part of my life, I'd be safe."

"Mozzie." Peter's eyes narrowed. "I can't believe we left our son alone with him for a whole night."

El caught Neal's chin and turned him toward her for a kiss. "You've eaten longer odds than that for breakfast."

"That's right," said Peter, absently. "And I bet he cherry-picked his data set." There was a scuffle under the table as El kicked him in the ankle, and he huffed and looked at Neal. "Nothing's going to happen to you."

"We promise." El took his hand. "We're not letting you go. Not again."

"That's right." Peter put down his toast and dusted the crumbs from his fingers. "You know, El was right about one thing last night."

"Only one?" murmured El.

Neal grinned at her and then raised his eyebrows at Peter. "What's that?"

"Marry us." Peter nudged him with his knee.

"Oh," said El. "Yes. Do."

Neal swallowed. "It wouldn't be legal."

"Since when has that ever stopped Neal Caffrey?" El squeezed his hand.

She had a point. But after the last night of tears and unburdening, and knowing the risks, it was hard to believe they genuinely wanted to tie themselves to him. If anything, they should be looking for an excuse to keep him at a safe distance. "Are you serious?"

"I keep calling you our boyfriend," said Peter. "I'd rather be able to say you're our husband."

"Me too," said El. "My second husband. My illegal husband. Husband number two."

Neal shook his head to clear away his misgivings; if they were sure, he'd be damned if he was going to talk them out of it. He'd spent years wanting what they had—trying to replicate it with Sara and with Rebecca—and the last year and a half living the dream. He was absolutely ready to make it official. "Moz did once say he'd be willing to preside over our union, if it came to that."

"Is that a yes?" asked Peter, and Neal turned, leaned across the arms of both their chairs and kissed him, loving the warmth and readiness with which he kissed back. Peter who was always there for him.

"Yes."

El accepted her kiss too, her eyes bright with excitement. "Wait," she said, "are we marrying Neal Caffrey or Victor Moreau?"

Peter shrugged. "Both. Either. I don't care."

"Caffrey," said Neal. "After everything, that guy deserves a happy ending."

 

END


End file.
